In His Hands
8 months
244 days
5,856 hours
351,360 minutes
21,081,600 seconds
Spent loving her.
I still remember the first night she came home with us as if I’m just now waking up from it.
Who am I kidding? I didn’t sleep. She didn’t, either, unless I held her. I stumbled around the house like a zombie the next day, attempting to keep myself together in front of my children.
The case worker came over and rattled off a few hours’ worth of information, which went in one ear and out the other. I couldn’t have repeated a word she said. I just signed the papers, and I wondered how.
How and why.
Why were we doing this? Countless people had asked that very question, and our answer had been simple: we wanted to impact another’s life for the better. We had extra space and love and we were willing to give it to whoever needed it.
Doing unto others as God had so graciously done to us.
And yet it was so hard. So, so hard. After birthing two children, I’d ignorantly assumed it would be a cake walk. I had been wrong, and the miles of tears I cried over the following days led me to believe I’d signed up to take on way more than I could handle.
The early weeks were colored in confusion, but we got into a rhythm and she’ll fell beautifully in step with our family.
“Oh, she’s so blessed to have you all during this season.” Others would encourage me. But the truth was, we were the ones receiving the blessing.
Because what I didn’t know, what I didn’t expect, was the great amount of joy she would bring into our home. Or how quickly we’d fall in love with her. Or how her beautiful smile would melt our hearts. Or how peace would settle over me each time I looked into her big, round eyes.
This experience that began with fear and doubt morphed into something far more beautiful than I ever expected it would… or it possibly could. Because it’s foster care, you know. It’s supposed to be scary and frightful and repelling. A whole different world where there is a lot of pain and sorrow, darkness and brokenness. How could it ever be anything more?
And, better yet, how could my heart ever endure the day when she would make her great departure and leave our little nest?
I rocked her for the final time last night. Memorizing the way her eyelashes kissed her cheeks when she slept. Tracing the outline of her chubby little hand resting against my chest. Leaning down to slowly steal one more kiss from her pouty lips.
And although it is contrary to human nature, it was joy that filled my heart.
A deep gratitude that God would entrust us with such a weighty task fully knowing how frail and incapable we are.
Especially me. Most of all.
But then again, we haven’t done an ounce of this in our own strength. Because it has been by the strength of God alone that we have made it through these last eight months. And not just made it, either, but we’ve cherished it.
As I packed away her things over the weekend, I found a piece of artwork from the start of Parent’s Day Out. I clipped it and hung it on the art wall. A comforting reminder and truth that has been woven into this story from day.
God has always carried her in His hands.
And there she will remain, tucked safely in His care.
That’s how we can do this. Because we trust Him. With her life, with our lives, with the lives of our own precious children. All of us are in His hands.
And no matter where the journey takes us, no matter what lies ahead, He will continue holding each of us up and carrying us every step of the way.
Just like He’s been faithfully doing all along.
